Smoke and Mirrors by Ben Hayward

The black mirror arcade raced past me,
Icons to neophyte religions in a blur,
Mixed messages absorbed in trite,
sweet sophistry in plain speech,

The darlings of lethargy speak to me,
My eyes itch but I can't tear myself away
White teeth, stretched across inhumane grins,
They tell you your needs, what's best for you.

We are silently complicit
And need the savage to come back home.

Smoke and Mirrors by James D. Irwin

I was fourteen when I took my first smoke. It was the summer and I had a job— of sorts— working at the funfair. There were a few of us— me, Rob, and Johnny. What we did was go around all the carnival games every now and then and ‘win’ so people thought they had a chance.

The work wasn’t strenuous and mostly we just got to spend all day running around a funfair and causing trouble and getting paid for it. And then there was Georgie. She was an older girl, sixteen or so. Georgie worked the House of Mirrors and wore cool clothes and sometimes smoked. We were all in love with her, of course.

One afternoon in late June or early July we found ourselves hanging out behind the small and run down House of Mirrors. I don’t think it was a conscious decision, at least not on my part... after an hour or so Georgie suddenly appeared out of a hidden door. A slim cigarette hung from her bored, insolent mouth. Our presence didn't startle her. She looked annoyed more than anything, before breaking out into a cruel smile. She sat down with us and asked if we smoke. We all lied and said yes. She called our bluff and offered us each a cigarette. Rob and Johnny ran away. I accepted. Georgie laughed. She lit both and I coughed and she laughed some more.

But I kept going back, and sooner or later I stopped coughing and got to being something of a professional. Georgie and I became friends that summer, if nothing else.

I think about that summer a lot, sometimes with fondness but usually with regret. I'm sixty-three now. I'm about to take my last smoke, if I haven’t already.

Smoke and Mirrors by Solomon Blaze

Dreams are your reality, when you’re Soul can’t sleep.

Pseudo-skies crumble;

You’ll drown in the Puddle.

It’s only Smoke and Mirrors;

You’re only Blood and Bones.

Please don’t take me, I want to stay...

Forever on the Surface; shall I simply lay?

Smoke and Mirrors by Lesley Whyte

Being dead is a lot like being alive, really. Except you don't have to eat or sleep or go to the bathroom, and most people don't even notice you. It was that last part I found really galling, but I guess a lot of ghosts - or at least some of them - never got noticed when they were alive. Never got...no, that's fine. Just had to check the grammar, didn't sound quite right.

I've always been noticed. Even as a little kid, I stood out. Probably because of my massive facial deformity. No, I'm kidding, I don't have a massive facial deformity. It's just a small one, really. Sorry, I couldn't resist. No facial deformities at all, I've just always been noticeable. I was the star of the family, always towering over Becky, and that didn't change when I started school and found a new audience. People didn't always like me, but they knew who I was. They had an opinion about me.

I liked it, most of the time. It made me feel important - and feeling important is important, because if death has taught me one thing, it's that nobody actually IS important. Sometimes, though, I'd complain about it and people would always tell me I was lucky, that it was awful on the other end of the spectrum. I'd never know what it was like to not be noticed. So I shut up moaning about it, because I really hated being told I was lucky.

Thing is, now nobody notices me and I'm kind of enjoying it. It's peaceful. Much better than being hated, that's for sure. I guess the problem is that people always want what they don't have. Like, Becky has this really flat, fine hair. Straight as anything, so low maintenance. But she was always saying she wanted my curly mess of hair. Like she didn't even know how much of a hassle it was. I always wanted her hair. It was the only thing of hers I wanted, that's for damn sure.

Smoke and Mirrors by Sara Travis

When I was twelve years old, my Uncle Tom took me to the circus. It was late, much later than I was usually permitted to stay out, after the dark had unfurled its wings, blanketing the tents in an inky blue. We walked through the high, velvety flaps of the tent, and past the place where dreams began. A large, circular stage dominated at the centre, its floor a swirl of red and black. Scattered around were cushions in various sizes, and spectators were dragging them as close to the stage as they could manage.

To the side of the stage stood a lady in a cage. Clusters of candles littered the ground by her feet, and the air was thick with a heavy, perfumed fog. She wore a leotard in the same, deep red as the walls of the tent, and she was dancing, though you couldn’t really call it dancing. She moved her body slowly to the soundless music, but it went further than that. As though the blood that ran through her veins was laced with the notes, her heart beating in time to the melody. Her face was covered in an elaborate mask, a deep, dusky red, covered in intricate swirls and encrusted with sparkling gems. And yet I felt the full, breathless pull of the beauty underneath, drawing me closer until I stood at her feet.

The mask shrouding her face slipped, and for a split second I caught a glimpse at what was beneath. Silky, porcelain skin. Full, ruby lips. Dark, rich eyes. She was beautiful; perhaps, too beautiful. In the wrong light I thought her features might look harsh, dangerous, frightening even. But in the soft glow of the candlelight she seemed to hang upon the cheek of the night, like a jewel. I found myself beguiled by the truth I saw in her face. We locked eyes, and it was as though all of my most secret dreams had somehow been set free.

I never saw true beauty until that night. I have not seen it since.

Day Thirteen

And today's prompt is...

Smoke and Mirrors